


Periphery of a Dream

by hanap



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Love (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Naga Crowley (Good Omens), Nightmares, Soft just soft, aziraphale loves one (1) demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap
Summary: “You were only dreaming, I promise.” Aziraphale reaches out and grasps Crowley's hands.Crowley’s grip tightens, as though he’s trying to anchor himself in reality. “What are you doing here?” He looks up at Aziraphale, his gaze almost timid. “How did you know I was…”“You called to me,” Aziraphale says softly. “I heard your voice.”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 63
Kudos: 281
Collections: Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange





	Periphery of a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this fic for the Wahoo Winter Gift Exchange over on Twitter! A gift for [masqueraderevelers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/masqueraderevelers), the sweetest bean. I hope you like this!

_Angel._

Aziraphale’s head jerks up – he hears someone calling him, though the only sound in the bookshop is the gramophone softly playing the second movement of Vivaldi’s _L’Inverno_.

_Angel._

The voice echoes throughout the bookshop, growing steadily more plaintive, and Aziraphale feels a shiver of fear run up his spine, as though the winter chill is creeping into the shop.

_Angel!_

The blood turns to ice in his veins at this last desperate call, and he doesn’t think twice – with a snap of his fingers, he finds himself in front of a familiar door, its buzzer shaped like a serpent. But he doesn’t bother – he lays a hand on the door, and the wards immediately deactivate.

Aziraphale shoulders his way in, and as he pushes the door to Crowley’s enormous office open, he unfurls his wings from the aether, opening each one of his thousand eyes. His heart is pounding with dread at the thought of what he might find.

“Crowley!”

The name reverberates through the cavernous flat, but no one answers. Aziraphale’s eyes peer through both planes of existence at once, taking in the metaphysical overlaid on top of the corporeal, but he finds no danger, no intrusion, no sign that anything has gone wrong.

“Crowley?” He’s more hesitant now, the heat of his power subsiding somewhat. “Are you here?”

There’s no response. Aziraphale closes his angelic eyes, now fairly certain that the flat was free of any outside intervention, both demonic and divine. He opens his corporation’s human eyes once more, blinking slightly as they adjust to the dimness of the flat. He’s never understood why Crowley insists on keeping it so dark – he’s been informed it’s an _aesthetic,_ though Aziraphale privately thinks it’s much too gloomy. It could do with a few more squashy armchairs. Maybe a bookshelf or two.

Tentatively, Aziraphale pushes open the revolving wall.

And then he hears it. A muffled shouting.

Before he knows it, he’s rushed into the hallway and pulled open the glass door that he knows leads to Crowley’s bedroom, though he’s never been in it before. The shouting escalates drastically in volume as the door slides open. Crowley’s voice is tearing from his throat in a raw and wordless scream that makes Aziraphale’s hairs stand on end. He’s thrashing on the bed, the bedclothes tangled around him.

Aziraphale crosses the room quickly and kneels by the low bed. He’s almost afraid to touch Crowley, but the terrible screaming is intolerable.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers, then louder, “Crowley!” He reaches out and grasps Crowley firmly on the arm, and his bare skin is so hot that Aziraphale nearly flinches away.

A flood of demonic energy surges around Aziraphale, and Crowley’s bedroom is suddenly engulfed in darkness. Aziraphale inhales sharply as something cold and _scaly_ wraps around his wrist tightly enough to hurt.

“Who are you?” A voice hisses in the darkness, fierce and guttural. Aziraphale snaps his fingers, and as a bright white light illuminates the bedroom, he finds himself face-to-face with a demon straight out of a nightmare – enormous coils spill from the mattress, black and red scales gleaming in the light. From the waist up is a human-shaped torso, a face framed with a mane of wild red curls, bright as a flame, cascading down the scaled arms and shoulders. Golden eyes stare at him unblinkingly, without a trace of recognition.

“Crowley, it’s only me.”

“How did you get in here?” A forked tongue flicks out to taste the air, the sharp fangs gleaming. “You dare intrude into my space?”

“I’m –”

“Wasss it you?” The voice pitches deeper suddenly into a menacing hiss. “The one who hurt my angel?”

Aziraphale is immobilised as the huge coils wrap around his ribs, heavy and relentless as steel, squeezing the breath out of him in a gasp. He pushes down the urge to beat his wings hard, for fear he might hurt Crowley. “Look at me!”

“I’ll kill you,” Crowley snarls, the slitted pupils contracting. “I’ll kill you for hurting him!”

“Crowley, it’s me!” Aziraphale rasps out, the coils looping around his neck threateningly. “It’s Aziraphale!”

Suddenly, Crowley freezes, blinking – and that catches Aziraphale’s attention, even as he fights to breathe – Crowley hardly ever blinks. “Look at me, please,” he chokes out. “Don’t you recognise me?”

Crowley says nothing. He’s staring at Aziraphale, but it’s as though the golden eyes are sightless, unfocused, gazing right through Aziraphale as though he wasn’t even there. The coils slacken slightly. “Aziraphale,” Crowley whispers.

“That’s right,” Aziraphale murmurs, and the thought suddenly occurs to him – _is Crowley still asleep?_ “It’s me, Crowley, it’s Aziraphale.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley echoes, and finally he blinks once more and locks eyes with Aziraphale. “Aziraphale,” he repeats, horrified. The loops of his enormous body release Aziraphale suddenly onto the ground – he falls to his knees, gasping for breath. “Oh, angel,” Crowley says, and his voice breaks. “I… I –”

“Don’t,” Aziraphale wheezes out, and struggles to his feet. His eyes are watering, but he grips Crowley’s arms firmly. “It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice grating. “You were asleep, that’s all.”

The demonic energy that hangs heavily in the air dissipates as Crowley’s lower half transmogrifies back into a pair of human-shaped legs. “I’m ssssorry,” he murmurs, the hiss lingering in his voice. “Aziraphale, did I hurt you?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale whispers, distressed by the way that Crowley is shivering. “It’s all right. No harm done.”

Crowley shakes his head, his breath coming in shuddering gasps. “You – you were… someone was _hurting_ you.”

“It was just a dream, that’s all. I’m perfectly fine.”

“But I – I woke up and it was me _._ I was the one who was hurting you,” Crowley whispers, and he pushes Aziraphale away, his eyes wide with fear. “It was _me_ ,” he repeats hollowly, looking down at his hands.

“Crowley, _no.”_ Aziraphale takes Crowley’s trembling hands in his own, rubbing warmth back into them. “Look at me, I’m quite all right. Tell me where we are, dearest.”

“I –” Crowley hesitates, swallowing hard. “We’re in my flat. In Mayfair.”

“That’s right. Can you tell me what month it is?”

“November.” Crowley pauses, as though trying to recall. “It’s winter. I had to turn the heating up before I went to sleep.” He takes another shaky breath. “You’re really okay? You’re not hurt?”

“Not at all. See for yourself, if you like.” Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s hands and opens his arms.

Crowley reaches forward tentatively, runs his hands over Aziraphale’s shoulders and down his arms, gingerly touching his chest and his back with the lightest touch of his fingertips. “Good,” he says, exhaling in relief. “I-it was so real.”

“You were only dreaming, I promise.” Aziraphale reaches out and grasps his hands once more.

Crowley’s grip tightens, as though he’s trying to anchor himself in reality. “What are you doing here?” He looks up at Aziraphale, his gaze almost timid. “How did you know I was…”

“You called to me,” Aziraphale says softly. “I heard your voice.”

The golden eyes widen. “But I was –”

“I know.” _You needed me, and you called to me, and so I’m here._ A wave of shyness overcomes him suddenly when he realises that Crowley’s voice had somehow reached him at the bookshop, even unconscious in sleep. When Aziraphale looks up through his lashes at Crowley, the golden eyes are impossibly wide, and Crowley’s face is flushed red.

For a moment, Aziraphale falters – six thousand years of holding himself back isn’t an easy habit to break. _Crowley needs you_ , he reminds himself. “I thought something had happened to you,” he says hesitantly, and his gaze drops to their clasped hands. “I came as quickly as I could. I… I was so afraid. I thought they had come for you.”

“I thought they’d come for _you_ ,” Crowley admits. He pulls his hands free from Aziraphale’s and scrubs at his face. One hand stays over his eyes as he leans back against the pillows, his shoulders stiff with tension. “I didn’t even realise I’d called to you.”

“I’m glad you did,” Aziraphale says quickly. “Crowley… you know you can, don’t you?” _Wherever you are, I’ll come to you,_ Aziraphale hears Crowley’s own words in his head, and wishes desperately for some way to let Crowley know that he would do the same for him.

Crowley grunts and turns his face away, as though embarrassed. “Listen, angel. I didn’t mean to get you all worked up over some nonsense nightmare I had, all right? You can go back to the bookshop.”

“Oh.” It’s undoubtedly a rebuff, and it pierces Aziraphale to the core. “Well, then. I’m glad to see you’re unhurt. If that’s what you want, then I’ll see myself out.”

Aziraphale gets to his feet and tucks his wings back into the aether. He tries as best as he can to keep the hurt of rejection out of his voice, but he must not quite have succeeded because Crowley rolls over quickly, the alarm clear on his face. “Hang on, don’t get me wrong, I just – I didn’t mean to get you involved in this, that’s all. They’re just dreams,” he says decisively.

Aziraphale wonders why Crowley rather sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, but he decides this isn’t the time to ask. “Dream or not,” he says instead, “I would like to help you, however I can.”

“M’fine, I promise. Don’t worry about it.”

“Please.”

There’s a sharp intake of breath from Crowley before he turns his face away. “There’s nothing you can do, angel.” Aziraphale hears the words muttered into the pillow. “S’all in my head.”

“Tell me about your dream?” Aziraphale cautiously sits on the edge of the bed, watching Crowley for his reaction. But when he doesn’t object, Aziraphale relaxes just the slightest bit. “Perhaps it will help to talk about it.” But Aziraphale suddenly remembers the words Crowley had spoken in his sleep. _My angel,_ he’d said. Oh, dear. The heat creeps into Aziraphale’s cheeks, and he’s suddenly grateful that Crowley is looking away.

There’s a long pause before Crowley breaks the silence. “The same things, again and again.” He shudders. “Watching the demons knock you out cold while the angels dragged me away. Seeing the way they treated you there, in Heaven.” He shakes his head, the lines around his eyes tight with anger. “It was… beyond words. And then… the bookshop.” He stops and takes a ragged breath, and all of a sudden, the words are spilling out of him in a torrent. “The fire. Smoke and ash everywhere, I can barely see anything and the sirens are so loud, and all your first editions have gone up in flames but somehow the old gramophone’s still playing and you… you’re –”

“Crowley, breathe,” Aziraphale says, feeling utterly helpless as Crowley drags in a lungful of air through his mouth roughly and rubs at his eyes with one hand. More than anything, Aziraphale wishes he could take this burden from Crowley. The grief, the fear, all of it, just to let him sleep peacefully. He longs to enfold Crowley in his arms, to reassure him again and again that he’s safe, that all of it had been undone and everything is back just the way it was thanks to Adam.

And then it occurs to Aziraphale – why shouldn’t he? Who is watching them now? Certainly not their respective former sides, not after the abysmal failure of the Apocalypse. He had been discorporated, he’d defied Heaven’s express command to lead his platoon to the War, returned to Earth, possessed a human, stopped the very end of the world.

How hard could this be – one more act of bravery for Crowley?

Aziraphale steels himself and toes off his shoes. He inches closer to Crowley, who still has his hand over his eyes and is inhaling and exhaling in purposefully measured breaths.

“We’re all right, Crowley,” he says softly, though his heart is racing in his chest. “We’re here now. On our own side, remember?”

Crowley huffs out a laugh. “Looks like it, yeah.”

In a moment of sheer bravado, Aziraphale reaches over and takes the hand that’s covering Crowley’s eyes as he lets out a startled sound. “But do you believe it?”

“I mean, we wouldn’t have been able to pull that off otherwise, right?”

Briefly, Aziraphale wonders if Crowley is being obtuse on purpose. “Yes, that’s right. But you see, it doesn’t quite end there, does it?” He threads their fingers together, his thumb running in slow circles over the back of Crowley’s hand, and fervently hopes that Crowley wants this too. “I suppose we’re quite free to do as we please now.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Crowley is gazing at him as though he’s afraid to look away, his eyes round as saucers.

“Crowley, six thousand years is a long time even by our standards,” Aziraphale says, and he realises that Crowley isn’t being obtuse at all, he’s _afraid,_ just as Aziraphale had always been – the repercussions of Heaven and Hell finding out about the Arrangement would have been terrible beyond measure. But they had left all that behind, and now there is only himself and Crowley and this world with all the humans that Adam had chosen to spare. “And I – I would very much like to be allowed to hold you now, if you would be amenable to that.”

Aziraphale lets go of Crowley’s hand and hesitantly holds his arms open once more in a silent invitation. A rush of unintelligible vowels flows from Crowley’s lips and he wavers only for an instant before pulling himself upright, slithering across the bed to bury his face in Aziraphale’s neck. A soft sigh of relief tickles Aziraphale’s ear, and he smiles as a pair of wiry arms wraps around his shoulders. He pulls Crowley right into his lap, and Crowley lets out a noise of surprise.

“Really, Crowley, sometimes I think you really do forget I was once the Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

“Forget? Me?” Crowley mumbles, and the low rumble of a laugh vibrates in his chest. “As if I could ever.”

Aziraphale hums. “Wily old serpent.” In his mind, he catalogues all the things he’s experienced on Earth in the past six thousand-odd years, and he decides that nothing quite compares to having a lapful of contented demon wrapped snugly around him, pressed so close together that Aziraphale can no longer tell their heartbeats apart.

After a few moments, Crowley pulls away from him slightly to look him in the eye. From this close, Aziraphale can count the freckles dusting the chiselled lines of Crowley’s face. He raises a hand and lightly traces a fingertip across them, mapping them out like constellations – he has known this face for so long, and yet only now has he discovered that Crowley’s very face mirrors the stars in the sky.

“My dear,” Aziraphale murmurs, “I thought you might try sleeping again, if you like.”

Crowley wrinkles his nose. It’s really rather fetching. “Can’t sleep after I’ve had dreams like that.” He looks down, his long fingers plucking at a button of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. Aziraphale takes his hand, understanding that Crowley’s trying to say without words – _stay, please, stay here with me._

“I can keep you company here,” Aziraphale says, brushing away a piece of lint on Crowley’s black sleep shirt. “Do you think that would help you sleep better?”

The golden gaze drops to their entwined fingers and flicks back up to meet Aziraphale’s eyes. _Yes,_ they say, _please stay._ Aziraphale smiles and fluffs up the pillows with his free hand, patting them gently. “Come now, so you can get some proper rest.”

Crowley nods and climbs off Aziraphale’s lap, crawling under the covers. His serpent’s eyes peek out from under the black duvet, his flame-red hair in sharp contrast against the dark sheets. He reaches out wordlessly, rests a hand on the pillow next to him.

_Oh._

Aziraphale considers this, then snaps his fingers. His clothes appear magically folded on the side table by Crowley’s bed, and now he’s dressed in a matched set of tartan pyjamas.

Crowley snorts. “Of course even your sleepwear is tartan.”

“Stylish at all times, in all places,” Aziraphale replies tartly, pulling the covers over himself and settling himself in. He turns to face Crowley, who’s lying on his side staring at Aziraphale with his lips parted. He would look rather silly, if Aziraphale weren’t so besotted with him.

“Stop gawking at me, your eyes are about to fall out of their sockets.”

Crowley jaw drops in shock for a moment, and he laughs. “You bastard. I have an angel in my bed. I’m _allowed._ ”

“I suppose,” Aziraphale concedes, his lips twitching. He raises a hand and settles it gently on Crowley’s face, fingers brushing over an elegantly high cheekbone, the sharp contour of his jaw, hardly daring to believe that this could be allowed to him now. “Go to sleep.”

“Will you be here when I wake?” The words seem to slip from Crowley’s tongue before he can think, judging by the way he clamps his mouth shut afterwards and immediately turns away. “No, forget I said anything.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, gently reproving. “Of course I’ll be here. There will be hot cocoa too, and a breakfast that you’ll only eat two bites of. Then I’m going to bundle you into the warmest clothes I can find in that gigantic closet of yours and we’re going to take a walk, and the snow will make everything look like a postcard. You’ll love it.”

“Angel,” Crowley groans, hiding his face in the pillows. “I can’t believe I have to put up with you.”

“Likewise _._ ” Aziraphale smiles and moves closer. "Now go to _sleep_." He wraps an arm around Crowley’s waist, presses his chest against Crowley’s back, wondering at how easy it is to pull their bodies together, to settle into each other’s warmth as though they had been doing this for the past six thousand years. Then again, perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised – loving Crowley has always been as simple as breathing, and not everything has to be said out loud for them to be true. Aziraphale buries his nose in the soft red curls that feather across the pillow and thinks that perhaps this is the happiest he has ever been in all his eons of existence. 

“Good night, dearest.”

There’s a soft noise of assent as Crowley winds their fingers together, presses Aziraphale’s hand against the steady beat of his heart. “Good night, angel.”

**Author's Note:**

> Aziraphale at the beginning of the fic is listening to Vivaldi's [Winter Sonata](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77PfZjWfF7E)! 
> 
> Come find me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/contraststudies) or [Tumblr](https://contraststudies.tumblr.com/)!


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